


Watch for Signals

by Astrum_Ululatum



Series: Precious Metals [3]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Dangerous Creatures, Darkness, Deaf Percival Graves, Endless Hallway, Established Relationship, Investigations, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-04 08:36:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10272557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrum_Ululatum/pseuds/Astrum_Ululatum
Summary: The last thing Percival sees before that door is forced shut is Daphne’s enlarged bronze eye, pupil a frantic slit, and her beak gaping as she screams. Then there is only the cold and the black and the silence.- - -An investigation gone horribly wrong coincides with the anniversary of Percival’s imprisonment.





	1. The Five Minute Hallway

**Author's Note:**

> Another installation! This one's kind of dark - literally and figuratively. It's also multi-chaptered because it just kept getting longer and longer, so I split it half.
> 
> The fic title is from, you guessed it, 'Mercury' by Sleeping at Last. The chapter title is a reference to the book House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski, because the book somewhat inspired this chapter/fic. All you really need to know about the book, if you haven't read or heard of it, is that takes place is a house that has this hallway that should not exist and extends past the house's dimensions. The hallway shifts based on one's expectations of it and frequently emits a strange growling sound.
> 
> It's a good book, one of my top favorites, but it is a liiiiittle bit pretentious - highly conceptual and designed to make you think and doubt. I still love it.
> 
> Anyway...

The house is located in a seedier block of Lower Manhattan, near the docks that prickle the edge of the Hudson. Its appearance is rundown and nondescript to the point that it has obviously been drenched in Notice-Me-Nots and no-maj repellents. The first-floor windows are boarded up, but from the second floor and up they are grimy and poorly shuttered. The stoop is gray cement, cracked along the bottom step, and the front door has an X across it with caution tape and a sign that reads _CONDEMNED_.

“This is definitely the place,” Percival says to his three accompanying Aurors. The building practically _screams_ suspicious, magical activity. Percival is confident it would have been found by an Auror soon enough even without the anonymous tip that came in to Investigations that morning.

With Tina at his side and Aurors Strenburg and Goodwin close behind, Percival mounts the first step of the stoop with his wand aloft. Parsing through the unkempt wards on the building is simple enough. According to the tip, this place has been inactive for a few months now, but it still reeks strongly of magic and possibly contains an alarming amount of illicit materials. Protocol dictates that a high ranking Auror check out anonymous tips of this nature and good sense dictates Percival bring along sufficient backup. (And if the amount of backup he brings is slightly disproportionate, it has nothing to do with the uneasy, acidic feeling in his gut about tomorrow being the anniversary of his capture by Grindelwald.)

The caution tape falls away with a gesture and the door swings open on resistant hinges with a slightly more assertive magical push. Inside, the entryway is dim and dusty and strewn with cobwebs. Random debris litters the floor and the walls bear empty hooks and crooked strings of wire. The place certainly looks condemned, like it has been empty for years rather than months, but the magical presence feels far too recent and Percival is immediately wary. Daphne shrinks on his shoulders; Percival has worked tirelessly to teach her to make herself smaller when he goes on alert rather than grow as is her natural inclination.

“Stay sharp,” he says to his Aurors. “Something isn’t right.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Tina raise her wand from where she was previously holding it down at her side. As a unit, the Aurors progress through the first room, sweeping systematically from floor to ceiling and over all remnants of furniture and storage units. Once cleared, they move on to the second room and then the third and then creep down a hallway to the stairs. The second floor is less dusty and cluttered, but just as empty and strange as the first floor.

Barely a minute into searching the first room, Daphne taps his shoulder and Percival turns to where Tina is standing. She’s running her wand along the perimeter of a door and her shoulders are stiff with tension.

“What is it, Goldstein?” he asks briskly as he approaches her. He glances at his other Aurors and they are continuing the sweep as protocol dictates.

“There’s a lot of magical energy coming off this door,” Tina says. She holds her empty hand close to the wood, adding, “And it’s cold.”

“Strenburg, Goodwin, on me,” says Percival. Daphne taps his shoulders, letting him know they have verbally responded, seconds later he feels their magical energies draw closer. “Goldstein, the door.”

Percival steps aside, closer to the frame so that he will see inside the moment it opens while giving Tina space to work. A flick of her wand and the door swings open with zero resistance. Beyond is a long, featureless hallway that disappears into solid darkness.

The hair on the back of Percival’s neck stands on end.

This isn’t right.

He feels an icy trickle down the length of his spine and turns sharply, wand raising.

“Ambush,” is all he manages to say before nearly a dozen unknown wizards appear in the room. His Aurors respond immediately and a firefight commences. Daphne shrinks down further and forms a snug collar around Percival’s neck, which isn’t ideal but there’s nothing for it now. He shoots off Stunners and Disarming spells and easily blocks incoming spells between each casting. He sees Tina send off an impressive chain of jinxes that leaves one of the unknowns flat on his back and bound in ropes. Goodwin twirls his wand and has another unknown spinning to his knees with hands locked behind his back. Strenburg flicks her wrist almost delicately and sends her assailant sprawling, Stunned unconscious.

They are outnumbered, but not outmatched.

With their backs to the wall and the clearly Extended hallway, their position isn’t ideal; they can’t tactfully retreat and instead must fight their way out. But Percival has faith in the abilities of his Aurors. Already they have removed five of their attackers from the fight with no damage sustained.

Then Goodwin narrowly deflects an incoming hex and sends it careening sideways towards Percival. The greenish jet of light blisters past Percival’s throat; he feels Daphne react and dread pools in his stomach. He brings one hand up to grab her while the other, holding his wand, throws up a Shield charm.

Daphne curls around his hand, beak open as she screeches and Percival is passingly glad he cannot hear whatever horrible noise she is making. He can see red staining some of her brilliant blue feathers, but she won’t stay still long enough for him to see the extent of the damage. Nor will she cooperate with his attempts to shove her safely into his pocket.

His Shield charm, hastily made, takes a barrage of spells and begins to crumble. Percival is in the middle of reinforcing it when an opponent manages to disarm him. Percival is stuck between watching his most faithful companion writhe in pain and watching his wand arch away from him. Another spell hurtles towards him and Percival is shamefully frozen; he lifts his now empty hand to wandlessly deflect when something hits him from the side and shoves him out of the way.

He staggers. Daphne falls from him grip. He sees Tina take a blow to the chest and go flying, ragdoll limp, down the hallway. He takes a step towards her, before reprimanding himself and turning back to the fight. Strenburg jumps up next to him, casting off spell after to spell to cover him while he plans his next move and then—

Daphne starts to grow. She is writhing and twisting in on herself. Feathers gleaming in the murky light, stray droplets of red flashing occasionally and splattering on the floor. Her bulk shoves Percival and Strenburg back, pushing them past the threshold of the strange cold door. The last thing Percival sees before that door is forced shut is Daphne’s enlarged bronze eye, pupil a frantic slit, and her beak gaping as she screams.

Then there is only the cold and the black and the silence.

Percival is frozen, momentarily seized by a panic so strong he can hardly breathe. He is suddenly an island, isolated on all sides and alone in unimaginable vastness. He stretches his hands out; his right hand finds nothing, but his left lands on something warm and solid. A person. He quickly withdraws. The reminder of other people being present brings logic pushing back to the surface. He summons an orb of soft, white light and shivers in relief at the return of his sight. He sees Sadie Strenburg at his side and knows she is the one he accidentally touched. She appears shell-shocked and rigid, staring down into the blackness of the distance with her mouth open. Percival follows her stare, but his eyes land instead on Tina and the relief gives way to dread.

Tina is on her back, legs out flat, one arm thrown to the side and the other limp over her stomach. There is a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. The direst explanation for that is the first thing that comes to mind and the dread turns acidic.

Percival goes to her immediately. He crouches at her shoulder and pats her cheek to rouse her. Her eyes flutter open, bleary and unfocussed, and Percival cups her cheeks to direct her gaze at him. Eventually, she meets his stare and her brows draw together in confusion and then, seconds later, her expression screws up with pain.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Percival murmurs, hoping he sounds as soothing as he intends. “I’ve got you, Tina. Can you tell me what hurts?”

Tina grimaces, closes her eyes as she concentrates, and one of her hands comes up to grip Percival’s sleeve. She swallows, tastes the blood, and lets go so she can prod her lip until she finds the source. She took a hard blow to the chest; it’s entirely possible that a rib cracked has punctured a lung. Percival prays that this hasn’t happened; even with his wand he doesn’t have the level of healing magic required to treat broken bones.

“Knee’s the worst,” she manages. “Left.” She swallows again and her hand returns to Percival’s sleeve with a white-knuckled grip. “Ribs hurt, don’t think they’re broken.” Percival sighs with relief. “Bit my lip really hard, too.” Tina indicates her bloody fingers and frowns.

“Can I look at your ribs?” Percival asks.

Tina nods.

“It means I’ll have to unbutton your shirt,” he tells her. This is hardly the time to worry about propriety and Tina is as tough as they come regardless, never very concerned about being ladylike, but Percival has to be sure to cover his bases.

Tina waves a hand at him and closes her eyes, leaning her head back with a drawn expression. So, Percival quickly undoes her shirt buttons and pushes away the fabric. The skin around her ribs is a striking reddish-black, the color spreading down her stomach and disappearing upwards under the hem of her brassier. Percival hovers his hand over the afflicted flesh and mumbles a string of charms. When he finishes, the bruise is considerably smaller and reduced to a faint pinkish color. He feels Tina sigh with relief under his hand.

Percival quickly buttons her back up.

“I need to look at your knee, now,” he says.

“Help me sit up first,” she replies.

Percival and Strenburg work together to carefully shift Tina upright and against the wall. Her left leg drags uselessly and her teeth are gritted together. Once she’s settled, Tina leans gratefully against the wall and looks at Percival expectantly.

He crouches by her leg and, with gentle hands, feels around her knee. It doesn’t take long for him to find an obvious problem. Tina jolts when he touches his thumbs over her indented kneecap and Percival quickly removes his hands.

“Sorry,” he says absently, still focused on the problem. “I need to get a better look at this.”

He unlaces her boot so he can pull the tongue forward to loosen it and pull her pant leg free. He hasn’t even rolled the fabric all the way over her knee when he sees the issue. When the material is bunched up around her thigh, he grabs one of Tina’s hands and has her hold it there. He takes a deep breath and assesses the damage.

Tina’s kneecap is severely displaced. The disc of bone sits an inch to the side and just slightly below the hollow space it is meant to occupy. The skin around it is puffy, bruised blue and black, and scraped raw. Percival takes a quick breath and then clamps one hand down on Tina’s thigh, just below where she is holding up the leg of her pants.

“Tina,” he says. “Your kneecap is displaced. I need to put it back, okay?”

She nods. “Just get it over with.”

“Deep breaths,” he tells her. “I’m going to count to three… One.” Tina sucks in a breath and Percival readies his hand over the bone disc. “Two.” In one quick motion, Percival pushes the disc back into place and Tina spasms beside him. Percival keeps his hands steady on her knee, keeping it as still as possible while he casts a cooling charm to help the swelling and then heals the raw scrapes. When he looks back at Tina, she has bitten her lip bloody again and there is a sheen of sweat on her forehead.

“You’re a bastard,” she says with blood on her lips and fire in her eyes.

“I need something to wrap this knee,” he says, sitting back on his heels and casting about for something… Anything. Strenburg is already moving, shrugging out of her jacket and using a quick spell to slice off a sleeve. With a twist of her wand, the sleeve is transfigured into a roll of white medical bandages.

“Thank you,” says Percival. He wraps Tina’s knee snugly, ties off the bandage, and unrolls the pant leg. A glance at Tina’s face and the way her eyes are fixed just beyond him tells Percival that Strenburg is speaking. Percival’s mouth presses into a thin line, trying to come up with a way to subtly find out what she is saying without showing his hand. The situation is unsavory and it’s likely he will be forced to tell Strenburg of his disability, but he’d like to put that off for as long as possible.

Fortunately, Tina is an outstanding Auror and a truly excellent friend. She heaves a huge sigh and lets her head thump back against the wall.

“So, you’re saying we have to wait for someone on the other side to let out us?” she asks, face lined with more frustration than pain.

 _Ah_ , so the door that lead them here won’t budge. That is an issue indeed.

Percival laces Tina’s boot back up with a gesture and then heaves himself to his feet. Relieved of a distraction, he feels Daphne’s absence like a physical ache and for the first time in a long time, he feels truly deaf. He pushes past it and goes to the door.

If not for the seam and the protruding knob, the door would be virtually invisible. It is the same dark, ashy gray as the walls, floor, and ceiling. Percival runs his hand across its face, traces over the seam of the frame, and locates the gray hinges. Throughout the years, he has acquired an extensive vocabulary of unlocking spells and hexes—one of the many bonuses in his line of work. Some are simple and logical, others border on madness, but all have proven to be effective.

None of them work on this door.

“Strenburg,” calls Percival, he makes sure he’s looking at her in the light when she approaches. “I’d like you to try a few blasting hexes.”

Without a wand to focus the spell, even a wizard as proficient as Percival runs the risk of casting astray and missing the target. Blasting spells are particularly prone to this.

“Yes, sir,” says Strenburg. Percival stands back with Tina, still sitting against the wall, and watches while Strenburg runs through the basic blasting and reducing spells. None of them work.

Tina tugs on his pant leg.

“Not that we haven’t basically done this already with all the explosions,” she says, “but maybe we should just knock?”

Percival raises his eyebrows and when he looks back at Strenburg, she shrugs and raps her knuckles against the door. The door that is completely undamaged and is as pristine as it was before they started trying to blow it up.

Unsurprisingly, knocking does not work either.

“A valiant effort,” Percival says dryly, arching an eyebrow at Tina.

“Well, nothing else was working,” she informs him pertly. Then she tips her head at Strenburg and Percival turns around to face the other woman.

Strenburg has a telling crease between her eyebrows—she is already catching on to the peculiarities of how Percival interacts with them without his faithful occamy companion. Honestly, he would be insulted if she wasn’t.

“Are you injured, sir?” she asks tentatively. “Did you get hit with an unknown spell? You seem to be having trouble hearing.”

“I’m fine, Strenburg,” Percival says, waving off her concern, “just be sure to face me when you speak.”

“Oh, yes, sir, I will,” she replies, startled. She looks like she wants to ask further about possible injury, but she bites her tongue. He sees her throat move as she clears it and then she asks, “What do you suggest we do now, sir?”

Percival takes stock of the situation. He looks critically at the sealed door, down the black depths of the hallway, and then down at Tina, still sitting with her legs stretched out in front of her. Tina is still too pale and she still has a smear of blood on her lip, but she’s wiped away the sweat and her eyes are clear.

Now that they are free of distraction—no longer tending to Tina’s wounds and no longer attempting to force open the door—the coldness sinks in. It’s the kind chill that seeps into the skin despite the layers of clothing it must contend with. If they remain where they are, they will surely freeze—slowly and painfully. Their options are either to move, to investigate the other end of the hallway, or conjure a fire to keep them warm while they wait.

“This hallway appears to be a straight shoot,” says Percival. “Even with an Extension Charm, it has to have an end. If we can’t get out, then we might as well continue our investigation.”

Percival may be a patient man, but he cannot abide inactivity when something more can still be done. He does a quick check of his pockets and finds a pen clipped to his waist coat. He hands it to Tina.

“Transfigure yourself a cane,” he tells her. “You’ll want to keep as much weight off that knee as possible.”

The cane Tina creates is less elegant than the one her sister made for him all those months ago—a handsome, silver-handled piece that he keeps by his front door—but it’s solid and serves its purpose. Percival and Strenburg help lever Tina to her feet and she takes a moment to adjust her clothing before taking the first experimental steps with her new walking aid.

Percival summons another orb, this one a brighter and sharper light, and sets it to hover over the door.

“Unfortunately, without my wand, there’s a limit to what I’m able to do in terms of offense,” he informs his Aurors. “I will, of course, do my utmost, but should a situation arise, the bulk of the heavy casting will fall on you.”

Tina and Strenburg nod seriously.

“We’ll follow this hallway directly, any rooms we encounter will be briefly surveyed and moved on from _unless_ we find something significant. And if we come to a fork…” Percival pauses, passes a hand over his face, and says, “We will not be splitting up. Whatever this place is, it isn’t normal, and we must stick together.”

He glances between Tina and Strenburg, both women wear solemn expressions and have their wands held at their sides. Percival thinks he probably couldn’t have asked for a better pair of witches to be stuck in a strange situation with—well, at the very least he’s damned pleased to have Tina with him, but Strenburg has proven to be quite competent.

“Alright, then,” he says. “Let’s go.”

 

\- - -

 

The sharp light Percival left above the door is a tiny point of white in the distance by the time they encounter any sort of deviation from the frigid gray walls. It’s a doorway—a gaping black maw, perfectly rectangular and with no framework or evidence of ever having held a door. They pause before it and Percival stares into the black depths and sees nothing.

He holds his hand out and sends a soft, white orb floating into the black and when it reveals nothing more than a hazy sphere of lighter gray, he strengthens it. When the light has turned crisp and unforgiving, the shape of a room reluctantly reveals itself. It’s a large room, several yards wide and several more yards deep, but it is empty and they can see no black hole doorways. They carry on down the hallway.

The doorway has long left the influence of Percival’s light when Tina and Strenburg freeze. With them flanking him and occasionally dipping out of his peripheral vision, Percival might not have immediately noticed their stopping had Strenburg not also grabbed his arm.

“What is it?” he asks urgently. The wide-eyed looks of panic on their faces makes his heart race and shoots acidic anxiety into his stomach.

“There was a noise,” says Tina.

“What kind of noise?”

“It sounded like…” she starts, but then she jumps and looks around wildly.

“There it is again.” Strenburg’s hand tightens on his forearm. “Can’t you hear that? It’s so loud…”

Percival stretches his hand out, presses his palm to the icy wall, and suddenly he can _feel_ it. A throbbing sort of vibration roils under his touch, seeming to emanate from the direction they have come from. Whatever is making that noise, it’s behind them and it’s _big_.

“Let’s go back to that room,” says Percival. “We can’t continue forward if there’s something behind us.”

“How do you know it’s behind us?” asks Tina, still wide-eyed and white-knuckled around her cane.

Percival lifts his hand obviously from the wall. “I can feel the vibrations.”

They turn back. The doorway slips back into view almost immediately and Percival places another light above it to mark their way. The room seems smaller this time around—they walk the perimeter and it takes no more than a few minutes. Just like last time, they find no doorways other than the one they came through.

“You’re certain the noise, the vibrations, came from behind us, sir?” Tina asks carefully.

“Yes,” answers Percival. “What did it sound like?”

“Like a growl and it was just… Everywhere.”

Percival frowns. He lifts his hand to his neck and is jarred by the lack of occamy. He ends up touching the side of throat with trembling fingertips for a sparse second before quickly lowering his hand.

“Sir,” Strenburg says, coming into his direct view. She has a severe expression, she wants the truth and she will not give in until she has it. “Tell me, has your hearing been impaired?”

Percival sighs and answers plainly, “Yes. I have been completely deaf for almost seven months now.”

Strenburg’s expression goes blank with shock.

“What? No… That’s not… Sir?” Her words are cobbled and fragmented, but the implication is still there. She looks at Tina as if for confirmation and Tina only nods. “How is that possible?”

Percival looks around the empty gray room and the visible puffs of breath before his and his Aurors’s mouths. This is hardly the time to stop for a discussion and he says as much to Strenburg.

“Let’s carry on down the hallway,” he goes on. “It has to lead to somewhere.”

 

\- - -

 

Hours go by—they must, but Percival’s pocket watch has mysteriously stopped working. The darkness is draining and Strenburg has begun to shiver violently. In the world beyond the hallway, back in New York, it is the final day of June and the peak of summer. None of them are dressed for this kind of chill, but Strenburg is also lacking a sleeve from her light jacket. The chill is creeping through the gap in her clothing and is now making her teeth chatter.

Percival shrugs off his own suit jacket and quickly draws it over her shoulders before the hallway can leach away the stored body heat in the garment. Strenburg puts her arms through the sleeves and snugs the jacket around herself gratefully. It’s much too big for her; Percival isn’t a large man, by any means, he’s fairly slim and about two inches shy of six feet, but Strenburg is a rather slight woman. She overlaps the lapels when she wraps the jacket around herself and the cuffs fall past her knuckles.

“Thank you, sir,” she says and Percival gives her a slight smile when he nods in response.

Now down to his shirt and waistcoat, the chill feels sharper, but so long as he keeps moving he thinks he’ll be alright.

The light over the doorway grows smaller and smaller. In seemingly no time at all, it has joined the first light Percival set over the exit as a pinprick in the distance. They have encountered no further deviations from the gray.

A hand touches his arm. Percival turns around to face his Aurors. Tina is pale and panting, her left arm shaking from her shoulder down to her rigid grip on the cane’s handle. Strenburg has her arms wrapped around her midsection, holding the jacket snug to her body, with her wand pointed carelessly towards the wall.

“Let’s take a break,” says Percival. He helps Tina sink down and lean against the wall and then sits across from her. Tina stretches her leg out in front of her and massages her left thigh with a grimace. She still has a smudge of blood—now dried to a flaky brownish color—at the corner of her mouth. Percival takes a handkerchief from his breast pocket and holds it out to her. Tina blinks at it and then takes it bemusedly.

“Blood,” he explains, indicating to the corner of his own mouth. Tina’s mouth shapes ‘oh’ and she wipes away the residue—it’s so caked down she has to lick a corner of the handkerchief to dampen it before all the rusty flakes leave her skin. She touches the cloth square with a cleaning charm before she hands it back to Percival.

“Thank you.”

Strenburg slides down next to Tina, sitting shoulder to shoulder so they can share a bit of body heat. She has that look on her face again, like she’s ready for answers and willing to dig for them. She purses her lips, clearly turning over words in her head and debating what level of interrogation she can get away with on her boss. Percival sighs and saves her the trouble.

“You’ve no doubt heard about my being held captive by Grindelwald,” he says. Strenburg has been in New York for little over a month, which is more than enough time for her to have been told the office gossip and history.

“I have, sir,” she answers frankly.

“Grindelwald did extensive damage to my ears,” he tells her in much the same way he would deliver a report to the President: brisk and to-the-point. “The Healers at St. Agatha’s did everything they could, but the damage was unfortunately irreparable.” (Percival doesn’t like to think about this, but… The last thing he heard before the world went silent was Grindelwald’s greasy voice and his own hoarse screaming.) “The occamy I carry around,” he continues, “is trained to let me know when someone tries to verbally engage with me.”

Strenburg is wearing an openly impressed expression. “Whose idea was that, sir? Yours?”

Percival shakes his head. “Tina is the one who brought me the occamy as an egg and suggested I train her as a service animal.”

“Fancy thinking, Goldstein!” Strenburg praises, bumping her shoulder to Tina’s. Then to Percival, she goes on, “And the Madam President? How’d you get her to give a shot at your old job?”

Tina snorts.

“It was the other way around,” answers Percival. “I was ready to pass on the mantle, but she convinced me to stay.”

“Good thing, too,” says Strenburg. “You’re leagues better than the Director back in Boston. Say…” She narrows her eyes at Percival, scrutinizing his face and looking as though she has just made a connection in a case. “Any relation to Roland Graves? The potion-maker?”

“Yes,” says Percival with a sigh. “He’s my younger brother.”

“Hotsy-totsy,” she says, grinning widely. Beside her, Tina guffaws—without the accompanying noise, she simply makes a highly unattractive expression with her mouth gaping open before dissolving into the more familiar image of laughter. _Good Morrigan_ , thinks Percival, _give me strength_.

“Is that everything you want to know, Auror Strenburg?” he asks, holding in a long-suffering sigh and attempting to bring some formality back to the conversation.

“No,” she replies, still smirking just a bit. “Why does Tina get to be Tina while I’m still Strenburg?”

“Because I’ve known Tina longer,” he says and leaves it at that.

“He was my mentor when I was a Junior,” Tina explains and then, inexplicably, adds: “Grindelwald demoted me to Wand Permits, because he knew I’d notice something was off.”

Percival reaches for his neck again. Despite knowing that Daphne is not there, he still jarred by her absence and it makes a heavy lump sit in the pit of his stomach. Strenburg watches the movement of his hand as he touches the side of his neck and then drops it into his lap.

“Missing your occamy, sir?” she asks, despite the obvious answer. “I’ve got a cousin, a squib, who has a seeing-eye dog and she always gets twitchy when the dog isn’t right by her side. His job might be to see for her, but he comforts her, too. He’s kind of like her familiar.”

Percival nods. “The occamy, her name is Daphne, and she’s very important to me.”

The last he saw of Daphne was her screaming and panicking. He swallows back the bile that rises in his throat and prays that she is okay. Percival doesn’t know what he would do if he lost Daphne—it’s a scenario he has never let himself consider. Would he find a new companion animal? Raise another occamy? Here in the dark, it’s too much to think about and too painfully possible with his shoulders so vacant.

“I’m sure she’s just fine, sir,” says Tina, reaching across the gap between them to take his hand consolingly.

“You didn’t see what happened,” he says darkly.

Tina’s hand squeezes around his. “Goodwin called for backup, you know he did, he’s a _good_ Auror. Daphne’s probably back at HQ by now being treated by the Beast Division or even Newt! You know Queenie’s always got an ear out for us and you know the second she hears about this, she’ll make sure Daphne’s in the best hands possible.”

Percival drags a hand over his weary face and then claps that hand over Tina’s. He gives her a thin smile. “Thank you, Tina.”

To Strenburg, he says, “Do I need to ask you for discretion about my hearing? I can’t depend on everyone in the Department reacting as favorably as you have.”

“No, sir, of course,” Strenburg assures him. “My lips are sealed.”

“Thank you,” he says gratefully.

They sit for a few minutes more and even in that short time, Percival feels a terrible lethargy come over him. His bones are chilled and his limbs are heavy and he feels his eyelids sliding to half-mast. He blinks rapidly in an attempt to clear the drowsiness away and refocuses himself. Tina and Strenburg don’t seem to be doing much better.

“We need to get up,” he says urgently. He hurries to his feet and pulls Tina up with him. She grits her teeth and scrabbles for her cane, but soon she is upright and looking much more alert. Strenburg is harder to rouse; her gaze is hazy and her brow furrows with tired confusion when Percival draws her up.

“We need to keep moving,” he says earnestly. “This place seems to have a draining effect if we stay still for too long.”

Tina shifts her weight to her right side and bounces a bit on the ball of her foot to wake herself up. Strenburg knuckles her eyes and then stretches out her arms and her back.

“Okay,” says Tina, “I’m ready.”

“Me, too,” says Strenburg, then she and Tina jump and raise their wands.

“What is it?” Percival demands.

“The growl,” answers Tina. She cocks her head, listening intently, and then says, “It’s coming from ahead of us.”

Percival summons another light and sends it zipping down the hallway. At first, nothing is revealed and then… Another black hole doorway, but this one is different. It isn’t made of straight lines and it isn’t rectangular in shape. Instead, it is hunched and imperfect like a cloak hanging on a coatrack. With the distance and the wavering quality of the light, the doorway appears to sway and oscillate. Then the light moves past it and the strange doorway vanishes into the black.

No other doorways are revealed before the light disappears in the distance.

“I want to check out that doorway,” says Percival, a crease forming in his brow, “then we’ll go back to the first door. I don’t think we’re going to find anything by going further.”

But the strange doorway never reappears. Percival leads his Aurors for what feels to be hours and never sees the cloak-like shape of that doorway again. His breath is coming out in visible clouds and each inhale stings with coldness. He holds his hand out to signal a pause and turns to look behind them—the lights he planted over the previous doorways are a single, pale star in an inky expanse of nothingness. He looks at Tina and at Strenburg—Tina is pale and trembling and leaning heavily on her cane; Strenburg is shivering, not even trying to keep her wand raised, and there are bags forming under her eyes.

Percival’s own hands are trembling like they haven’t since the early days of his recovery and his bad knee is beginning to ache fiercely. It’s time to go back to the start. So, Percival slips an arm around Tina’s waist and she gratefully loops hers over his shoulders and lets him carry half her weight as they begin the long trek back.

Only… It isn’t long at all. Despite their crawling pace, the pale star of their destination grows brighter with each passing second. In a matter of minutes, the star has bisected and the glimmering halves are moving further and further apart.

From the corner of his eye, Percival sees Tina shake her head and her mouth move. He doesn’t try to see what she is saying; if it is something important, she'll get his attention. So, he leads on and lets the women carry on their conversation.

When they reach the first orb of light, Percival plucks it from its position atop the frame and sends it on a circuit of the room. As he expected, the room is still completely barren—he extinguishes the light.

Tina taps him with the hand over his shoulder.

“The growl is back,” she tells him, but is too drained to express the same anxious fear the noise instilled in her before.

The orb above them flickers. Percival is becoming exhausted and his magic is suffering for it. The light he placed above the exit has lost its crispness and when they reach it, the sphere is scarcely the size of a sickle. Percival dismisses it immediately. The door is still completely unscathed by all previous attempts to open it and in the diminishing light, this fact is all the more depressing. The women sit heavily side by side, pressed close for warmth, but Percival tries his hand at unlocking the door just once more.

It does not budge.

Percival presses his hands to the frigid surface and _pushes_ with all his magical and physical strength combined.

It does not budge.

With every heaving breath, all Percival feels are needles of icy air filling his lungs and scoring his throat. His arms, in addition to his hands, are trembling and his right knee feels weak. Defeated and exhausted, Percival steps back from the door and turns around.

Tina has her head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed and mouth slightly agape—she is sound asleep. Strenburg leans against Tina’s side with her head pillowed on Tina’s shoulder, surrounded by black shadows creeping in with the waning light. Except… One particular shadow is deeper and darker than the rest and seems to move beyond what is natural. Percival takes a half step closer before abruptly realizing what is happening.

Wandless, Percival cannot cast the necessary Patronus to send the lethifold away, so he lunges forward and grabs it with his hands. The shroud-like creature is so velvety soft and cold it almost feels wet. It is also appropriately slippery as it slides between Percival’s fingers with ease and then glides away into the darkness. Percival stares after it, hands shaking terribly and his heart racing in his chest. Then he ducks into a crouch and searches Strenburg’s neck for her pulse. His jostling rouses her and she blinks at him in confusion, batting at his hand.

“What is it?” she asks blearily. “What’s going on?”

Percival sinks back on his heels with a great sigh of relief and drags both hands over his face.

“There’s a creature in here,” he tells her solemnly.

“What kind of creature?” she asks, still foggy and unfocused.

“I’ll take care of it,” Percival assures her. “I want you to concentrate on staying awake. Can you do that for me?”

Strenburg nods. “Yes’ir,” she slurs and her eyes fall shut. Percival grips her shoulder and shakes her; her expression pinches, but she doesn’t wake.

“Tina,” he tries, shaking her shoulder and then patting her face when that doesn’t work. Tina has a hand pressed to her midsection, over her bruised ribs, and a pained crease between her eyebrows. She does not wake either.

Frustrated and out of options, Percival turns and pounds furiously on the door, but it will not budge. He wrenches the knob, but it will not twist. The light fades as his energy lessens and he is facing the very real threat of being deaf _and_ blind. So, he stops. He presses his back to the wall opposite his unconscious Aurors and slides to the floor. In the tiny dome of remaining light, he can only just make out the forms and faces of Tina and Strenburg. He can see the rise and fall of their breathing and takes comfort in the proof that they are still alive.

Try as he might, Percival can’t help being reminded of all the nights he spent locked in his own bedroom, useless and powerless as a madman paraded about with his face. The shaking and the soreness are even the same. He is as trapped now as he was then, except this time he is most certainly doomed and his isn’t the only life in peril.

To distract himself from the encroaching claustrophobia and panic, Percival tries to recall everything he read in Newt’s book about the lethifold. The section was spare as not much is known about this creature that leaves no trace of its passage. All that can be said for certain is that the Patronus Charm repels them in much the same way it repels a dementor. This does him no good—the Patronus is a difficult spell to cast even with your own wand and Percival does not have access to his own wand.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a black shroud glides into the dim light and ripples over Strenburg’s ankles. Percival lunges forward and grabs for the creature. The strange material of its body slips from his grasp, but instead of retreating like last time, it continues to spread itself over the helpless Auror. Percival grits his teeth and tries to hold onto the “hem” of the lethifold, but to no avail. It covers Strenburg’s legs and creeps further over her hips.

Percival fumbles Tina’s wand from her limp hand and, still on his knees, directs it at the beast.

“Expecto Patronum,” he gasps and nothing happens. He tightens his grip and straightens his spine and makes a concerted effort to expel the bleakness from his mind. “Expecto Patronum!”

The lethifold slithers up Strenburg’s midsection. Percival thinks of the lush curve of Newt's lips and the dazzling green of his eyes.

“ _Expecto Patronum_!”

Feeble wisps of silvery mist sputter from the tip of Tina’s wand, but the lethifold gives no notice. It spans Strenburg’s chest and closes in on her throat.

Percival snarls and drops Tina’s wand. He thinks of Newt's fingertips skimming his jaw and drawing him in for a tender kiss. He holds out his right hand. “ _Expecto Patronum_!”

Amazingly, silvery mist bursts from Percival’s palm—stronger than when he used Tina’s wand. This time, the lethifold slows.

Emboldened, Percival tries again. He thinks of Newt, quiet and strong, clutching his case.

“ _EXPECTO PATRONUM_.”

An immense silver occamy explodes from Percival’s palm and the loose frame of his fingers. It seizes the lethifold in its beak and hauls it off of Strenburg’s body, iridescent wings pumping and body swirling as it carries the beast away. Percival watches in stunned amazement as his fully-formed (and newly-shaped) Patronus illuminates the bleak gray hallway as it transports the dangerous creature into the distance.

Moments later, the occamy curls back on itself and returns to him in a blur of silver. It swoops around him, brushes his cheek with its translucent feathers, and then phases through the closed door. Percival turns on his knees to watch it as it goes, body shaking with adrenalin and disbelief.

And then… Miraculously… The door swings open.

The light that is let in is blinding and Percival lifts a hand to shield his eyes. It takes a moment and a series of rapid blinks to clear his vision enough to recognize the shape of Auror Goodwin against the backdrop of a dingy apartment room. Percival rises unsteadily to his feet, has to place a hand on the wall to steady himself. Behind Goodwin, he sees most of their unknown attackers bound or handcuffed and lined up against the wall—as if no time at all has passed.

“Sir…!” exclaims Goodwin, but then he doesn’t seem to know what to say.

“Have you called back-up?” Percival demands.

“Uh, yes, sir, I have,” he stutters. “They should be here soon.”

Percival nods curtly. “Get Goldstein, _carefully_. She’s injured.”

He turns before he sees Goodwin’s response and gently gathers Strenburg into his arms. His foremost priority is getting out of this damned hallway and getting that door shut before the lethifold comes back. Tina, he sees when he looks up, rouses when Goodwin goes to her and groggily tries to help him get her up. Strenburg remains unconscious and worryingly limp. As soon as they clear the frame, Percival kicks the door just behind himself and presses until he hears it click.

He sets Strenburg down away from the door and away from the cuffed assailants. He props her up under a window that is letting in beams of warm summer sunlight. The heat is invigorating and Percival stays crouched in its reach for one glorious moment before he stands and looks at Goodwin.

“How long has it been since we went through that door?” he asks. He wants to demand, to sound unaffected, but the truth is he’s exhausted and he knows his voice is coming out quieter than usual. He can scarcely feel the vibrations of his own vocal chords.

Bewildered, Goodwin replies, “No more than five minutes, sir.”

Percival swallows roughly and pulls out his pocket watch. It’s working now, ticking away as if it never stopped and picking up right where it left off. If Goodwin is correct, his watch is now five minutes behind.

“What happened, sir?” the Auror asks, confused and a touch concerned when Percival remains silent. But Percival has caught sight of several drops of red scattered across the scuffed floorboards. The blood, bright and fresh, leads him through the Spartan debris and out to the corridor. The first few steps he takes into this hallway make him shudder, but the differences are comfortingly obvious and the feeling passes. Then he catches sight of iridescent turquoise and the shiver of feathers and he rushes forward.

Daphne has shrunken to minuscule size and is curled in the shallow basket of an overturned, wicker chair. Her wings are half-spread and quivering over her coiled body, her beak tucked meekly under the plumed tip of her tail. Percival kneels before the chair and reaches out to gently stroke the ridge of her wing. Daphne’s head shoots up, her feathers flair, and her beak opens wide in a silent shriek—then she recognizes Percival. In an instant, Daphne is six feet long—then longer and then longer still—and wrapping her entire self around Percival’s body and squeezing affectionately.

Percival laughs—a wheezing sound, he’s sure—and works his arms free and tries to wrangle his occamy companion. Daphne’s body is vibrating with happiness and noise that he cannot hear, frantically nuzzling her large face against his jaw and fluffing her feathers. When she eventually settles, Percival unwraps her from his torso and ushers her to sit on the ground before him. She is somewhere around eight feet in length and she shows no obvious signs of injury, but that could easily be due to her excitement to see him. Percival checks her over as best he can with her squirming so happily and he sees traces of red and places where her feathers are gummed together with drying blood. He can’t find an actual injury, not while she won't sit still, though that does little to comfort him—he is certain she was hit.

But he can’t spend too much time on her right now. He can sense the approach of more Aurors, can feel their magical energy turning the air electric and putting the taste of ozone on his tongue. Percival coaxes Daphne to shrink several feet and then hoists her onto his shoulders. The return of her weight and warmth does wonders for his shot nerves and settles the worst of the trembling in his hands. He sighs and Daphne wiggles on his shoulders.

Back in the room, Goodwin is crouched before Tina and Strenburg, both of whom are sitting in the sunlight and looking somewhat less pale and drawn. Percival looks around, using the toes of his shoes to push over broken planks of wood in search of his wand. He finds it after a few minutes, tarnished and beaten up but still in good condition. It warms in his hand and he is once again forcibly reminded of his captivity, the absence of his wand and then its wonderful return.

Aurors troop into the room seconds later, headed by Senior Auror Omar Abasi. Abasi assesses the room and goes to Percival immediately.

“Director,” he says and there’s a clear note of relief on his face.

“Abasi,” says Percival. He still feels unsteady on his feet and he’s sure Abasi has taken note of this, but he tries to stand as straight as possible. He gestures to Tina and Strenburg and says, “These two are in need of immediate medical attention.” Then he indicates the bound assailants. “Have these men taken to holding for interrogation.”

Abasi nods and is barking orders as he turns on his heel. Percival slumps against the nearest wall and tries to catch his breath, but he cannot rid his lungs of the icy chill.

“Director,” says Abasi, approaching him once again. Behind him, Aurors are Apparating away with people on their arms—Tina and Strenburg go first. “You need medical attention, too.”

Percival shakes his head. “I can wait. I need to see this through first.”

Abasi presses his mouth into a tight line and then presses the issue. “I can take over here, sir. You should see medical. I’ll get all the reports ready and have them waiting on your desk by the time you’re out.”

Percival considers this. Abasi did act as Director during his medical leave and proved to be competent in the role.

“Fine,” he concedes, then he points at the door to the hallway. “That door is not to be opened under any circumstance. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” says Abasi, slightly alarmed by the urgency in Percival’s tone, but wise enough not to ask questions. “I understand, sir.”

Percival heaves himself off the wall and holds himself as steadily as he can on his way out of the room. In the hall—the lit, dusty, cobwebby hall—he slows his pace and descends the stairs with care for his knee. Daphne nuzzles his cheeks and the underside of his jaw and continually digs her little claws into the points of his shoulder blades as she fusses over him. On the ground floor, he pauses to collect himself and then Apparates to St. Agatha’s.

He staggers when his feet hit the tiled floor of the Apparition point, but his arm is immediately caught by a waiting attendant. The sidelines of Apparition points of all hospitals are well staffed in the event of an incoming emergency. The attendant jolts a bit when he notices the occamy on Percival’s shoulders, but maintains professionalism and guides Percival to the lobby. There he is met by the two Aurors who escorted Tina and Strenburg—one of whom happens to be Irene Franklin.

Franklin hurries to Percival’s side as he waves away the attendant and though he appreciates her concern, Percival waves Franklin off as well.

“How are Goldstein and Strenburg?” he asks, easing himself into a waiting room chair.

“They’re being seen to,” answers Franklin. “Would you like us to stay here or head back to the scene?”

“The scene is being handled,” says Percival. “Go back to MACUSA and get started on your reports. And send Queenie Goldstein over, she’ll want to be here.”

“Yes, sir,” says Franklin. She hesitates, one hand poised as if to touch his shoulder, and then she withdraws it and leads the other Auror, a Junior, to the Apparition point to depart. Percival lets his spine loosen and he sits a little deeper in his seat now that his subordinates are gone. Daphne rubs her face against his cheek in a truly cat-like display of affection and Percival smiles fondly at her. She butts her head against his temple and then pulls his attention to an approaching Healer. Percival rises to meet the man’s incoming handshake.

“Director Graves,” the middle-aged wizard greets him, “I’m Healer Bernard Berry, I’m overseeing the care of Auror Sadie Strenburg and I was hoping you could give me some insight on her condition.”

Percival appreciates Berry’s straight-to-business attitude and responds in kind.

“I’m afraid there’s not a lot I can tell you,” he says. “She and Auror Goldstein were trapped in a highly magical area for…” He pauses and then, frowning, admits, “I’m not sure I know how long it was, there was some temporal distortion. Regardless, the area had a draining affect and housed a lethifold. Strenburg was nearly ingested.”

Berry gapes for a second and then quickly collects himself. Daphne discreetly taps the back of Percival’s shoulder—he glances behind him and sees Queenie and, blessedly, _Newt_ rushing towards him. When he returns his focus on Berry, the Healer is speaking.

“—you, Director Graves,” he is saying. “Both are doing well, I assure you, but this will help us tremendously.” Then he gives Percival’s face a critical once-over. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Percival insists. Berry doesn’t appear to believe him, but the rules of patient consent are clear and he can do nothing without Percival’s explicit say-so. Healer Berry nods and hurries away.

Percival has not even finished turning around completely when Queenie Goldstein latches onto his arms.

“Mr. Graves!” she says, almost too quickly for him to follow. “You look dreadful, are you alright? How’s Teenie? Did you say lethifold?”

“Slow down, Queenie.” Percival lowers her into a chair and sits next to her. Newt hesitates a moment and then sits on her other side so he can face Percival directly. “Tina will be fine. She was injured, but the wounds are fairly minor. And yes, a lethifold, but it did not harm anyone.” Percival meets Newt’s eyes and adds pointedly, “The lethifold was not harmed either.”

Newt’s cheeks pink and he smiles at Percival gratefully.

“Daphne, however,” Percival continues, gently unwinding his occamy from his shoulders and bringing her into his lap, “was harmed, but I haven’t been able to find the wound.”

Newt is up and kneeling before Percival in an instant, wholly focused on the creature in need and heedless of everything else around him. With deft hands, Newt feels his way down the length of Daphne’s body, starting at her head and working his way toward her tail. Just before her wings, he pauses and carefully shifts a few feathers aside to reveal a blood-caked cut about two inches long.

“Poor dear,” he says, tipping his chin so Percival can understand him, “it looks like she caught the edge of a Slicing Hex. No worries, love, a drop of dittany will have her sorted in a jiffy.”

Newt leans back on his heels and goes digging through the numerous interior pockets his signature blue coat. His expression scrunches into one of adorable concentration and Percival doesn’t need Queenie’s nudging to know he has a shamefully besotted look on his own face.

“Ah!” Newt holds up a stoppered vial triumphantly and wastes no further time unscrewing the cap and pinching a bit of liquid into the pipette. Just as he said, it takes only one drop to the center of the cut to seal Daphne’s skin back together without leaving a scar. Daphne chirps at Newt and rubs herself lovingly against his face.

“You’re quite welcome, sweetheart,” Percival sees him shaping, fingertips tickling the underside of Daphne’s chin. “Anything for you.”

Newt shifts into the chair next to Percival and takes his hands into his own. It isn’t until Percival feels just how gloriously warm Newt’s hands are that he realizes he is still carrying a lingering chill from the hallway. The redhead frowns a bit and folds both of his hands around Percival’s in an attempt to share body heat.

“And you, love,” he says. “You look like you could use a Pepperup.”

Percival smiles thinly. “That and a long night’s rest.”

Queenie touches his arm.

“You go on and take of yourself, Mr. Graves,” she says. “I’ll tell Tina you were here.”

Another of the many things Percival has learned during his long career is how to pick his battles. Faced with the wide, worried eyes of Newt and the earnest gaze of Queenie Goldstein, Percival decides that this battle is one he must concede. As much as he would like to stay and wait to learn firsthand about the condition of his Aurors, he must admit that he is dead on his feet.

“Fine,” he says, “but I need you to ask after Sadie Strenburg as well.”

“Of course, hon,” Queenie promises. She squeezes his arm and then sits back and settles in to wait for Healer Berry’s return. Newt drapes Daphne over Percival’s neck and then draws him to his feet. Arm in arm, they make their careful way to the Apparition point and think of home.

                                        

\- - -

 

Percival sends a memo to Picquery to let her know that he will return to work tomorrow to wrap up the reports on the today’s events and then promptly collapses into bed. Newt coaxes a Pepperup Potion into him before he falls asleep and then fusses with the pillows and blankets until Percival drifts away.

He does not sleep dreamlessly. He is, instead, haunted by long, gray hallways that stretch for miles and living shrouds that detach from the black shadows to consume him. He dreams of Strenburg being ingested and fruitless attempts to pull the creature off Tina’s defenseless form.

He dreams of darkness and silence.

He dreams of Grindelwald. The dark wizard roaming that cursed hallway, snakelike and sneering, and wearing the lethifold like a malevolent cloak. He draws Percival’s wand and presses its tip to his temple and extracts what he pleases from Percival’s mind.

Percival wakes up gasping for breath, sweat shining on his forehead and Newt sitting up beside him. The magizoologist pets his back and shoulders soothingly and sits so close the tip of his nose brushes against Percival’s cheek. Percival curls into Newt’s comfort, drops his head onto Newt’s shoulder and slides an arm around his slim waist.

The clock on the bedside table reads a quarter past midnight. It is the first day of July and exactly one year ago that Percival’s home was broken into and turned into a prison.


	2. Exploration #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, Newt,” says Tina. “Are you going to go capture that lethifold now?”
> 
> “Of course,” says Newt.
> 
> “Absolutely not,” says Percival at the same time.
> 
> They stare at each other. Newt lifts an eyebrow dangerously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, you guys! I am so blown away by the reception of not only this installation, but of the whole series! You guys are seriously the best. I can't thank you enough!! <3
> 
> Un-beta'd as always, I apologize for any grammatical errors.
> 
> Chapter title is yet another reference to House of Leaves.

Percival is fifteen minutes late for work. He finds tardiness to be a deplorable trait and is quite annoyed with himself for embodying it today. He hasn’t been late for work since the earliest days of his recovery, when he was still weak and the lateness was thoroughly excusable. He has no such excuses today—he is well rested due to the cap of Dreamless Sleep he took at midnight and the color has returned to his cheeks thanks to the Pepperup Potion. Physically, Percival is perfectly fine.

Mentally, _emotionally_ , is an entirely different matter.

His shoulders are stiff despite the warm, comforting weight of his occamy and his limp has noticeably returned. Percival had to grab his cane on his way out the door and needing his walking aid after all this time does nothing to sweeten the sourness of his mood.

“Abasi,” he barks as he blows through the bull pen, “my office.”

He doesn’t bother to check if Abasi is following; Daphne lets him know with a tap to the shoulder. In his office, he seats himself heavily, leans his cane against the side of his desk, and then waves the door shut behind his most Senior Auror.

“Debrief me on what happened at the scene after I left,” Percival orders.

“Yes, sir,” says Abasi immediately and then jumps right in: “I lead Aurors Rossini, Avery, Franklin, and Matchinski and Junior Aurors Kinney, Adler, and Lesatz to the scene upon receiving the request for backup from Auror Goodwin. It took no more than six minutes to call everyone together and Apparate to the scene.

“As you know, Auror Franklin and Junior Auror Kinney took Aurors Goldstein and Strenburg to St. Agatha’s for immediate treatment. The rest of the backup team began transporting the culprits to the MACUSA holding cells. After you left, I personally did a sweep of the building for any contraband or illegal activity, but everything checked out. I found nothing suspicious or out of place except the door you pointed out to me.”

“Did you open that door?” Percival asks.

“No, sir,” Abasi assures him.

“Good. I assume you spoke to Goodwin about the events that occurred before your arrival.”

“Yes, sir, that was my next course of action.”

“Excellent. Repeat to me what he told you.”

Abasi says, “Auror Goodwin told me that everything was going according to procedure until your team arrived on the second floor. Minutes into the sweep, Auror Goldstein called attention to the door and you, sir, went to investigate. Auror Goodwin did not get a good look at what was beyond the door, just that it was dark, and that it was open not even a minute before you called the ambush.

“The firefight was brief. Goodwin reported that nearly half of the attackers were subdued before a poorly deflected spell grazed your occamy, causing you to be briefly distracted and then disarmed. Aurors Goldstein and Strenburg stepped up to cover you.” Abasi reports this with complete neutrality and, even so, Percival senses no judgement from his subordinate. “Auror Goldstein took a hard hit and was thrown through the doorway. At this point, the occamy began to grow and Auror Goodwin was pushed away from you and Auror Strenburg.

“The occamy knocked two of the remaining attackers unconscious when she grew, but shrank and fled the room when a third struck her with a blunt object.” Apologetically, Abasi adds as an aside, “I’m afraid Auror Goodwin was unable to elaborate further on that. He was pinned to the wall by one of the wings and could not see much past the feathers.”

Percival nods, hand absently rising to stroke Daphne. “I understand. Go on.”

Abasi continues, “While the occamy cleared the room, Auror Goodwin used the distraction to Stun the remaining attackers and then promptly called for backup. Once he had the culprits properly bound and ready for transport, he went to the door. He was worried, sir, because several minutes had passed since the occamy stopped blocking the door and you had not yet emerged. Then, just before he opened it, a Patronus appeared. Goodwin reported that it was in the shape of an occamy and that even though the Department is aware of your mountain lion Patronus, he assumed it was yours.” Curious, largely on a personal level rather than for the reports, Abasi asks, “Has your Patronus changed shape, sir? Or was that Strenburg’s?”

“No, it was mine,” says Percival. “Goldstein and Strenburg were too incapacitated at that point to be casting spells.”

Abasi’s dark eyebrows shoot upward. “Sir… You were disarmed.”

“I was,” Percival confirms calmly. Inwardly, he takes great pleasure in Abasi’s barely restrained amazement.

“You created a fully-formed Patronus with someone else’s wand?”

“I did not have access to Strenburg’s wand and Tina’s refused to work for me.”

Flabbergasted, it takes Abasi a moment to pull himself together enough to put voice to the only logical conclusion he can come to. “You… Sir. You cast a fully-formed Patronus _wandlessly_?”

Percival nods. “I did.”

Abasi stares, mouth slightly agape in his astonishment. The ability to speak has apparently escaped him entirely now. Percival decides to wait him out—Abasi’s open admiration and respect is making him feel better about today.

After a minute, Abasi finally breaks through his internal block and leans back as he lets out a huge, belly laugh.

“If you were anyone else, sir,” he says, eyes bright and smiling wide, “I would call you a liar. But if anyone is capable of this, it is, without a doubt, you.”

Percival chuckles and says, “I appreciate your confidence in my skills. Personally, however, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to duplicate the experience.” He grimaces then. “I would not want to duplicate the experience, to be honest.”

This sobers Abasi. He asks, carefully, “What was on the other side of that door, sir? It carried a strong Extension Charm and you, the three of you, emerged looking… Well, looking ghastly.”

Percival doesn’t answer immediately. He deliberates over how much he wants to reveal and how much he is willing to speak about. The hallway was harrowing, but in an unusual and understated way. It seemed to shift and change around them, warping to defy his expectations of space and distance. The black and the cold fed on them, eating away at their life-force and leaving them feeling chilled and wan. It trussed them up to be meals for a waiting lethifold.

With a weary sigh, Percival says, “It was hallway, a long and impossible hallway. It… I don’t fully understand it, myself, but there was something very _wrong_ with it. It housed a lethifold or at least it housed one lethifold. For all I know, there could be dozens more in there.” Percival shakes his head slightly. “I have no desire to find out and I will not be sending anyone to investigate.”

“Would you like to take any action, sir?” asks Abasi. He maintains his professionalism, but Percival can see the numerous questions in his eyes. “Or are we to leave the door as is?”

Percival hesitates minutely and then comes to a snap decision. “I’m going to seal it this afternoon. It’s too dangerous to leave as is. The door cannot be opened from inside the hallway and we cannot run the risk of anyone else becoming trapped.”

“Very good, sir,” says Abasi.

“You’re dismissed,” says Percival. “Tell the others to have their completed reports on my desk by the end of the day.”

“Yes, sir,” says Abasi; he closes the door behind him on the way out.

Percival commits the next hour to writing his own report and then the hour after that to reviewing the preliminaries that come in from the Juniors—the poor young things try their best to get their paperwork done as soon as possible, thinking they will appeal to him with their efficiency. Percival sends every report back for rewriting, because the Juniors haven’t yet learned how to match quality with punctuality. Every preliminary is report back on the desk of the Junior Auror it came from before the clock strikes twelve.

And then he stews in the silence and solitude of his office.

He hasn’t had a day like this—a day where he simply becomes _stuck_ —in something like four months. Though, it is hardly surprising that today would be the day to end that streak.

Percival summons himself a cup of coffee, brews it dark and strong, and tries to focus himself. But the frigid memory of that hallway and the leering white face of Grindelwald linger malignantly in the back of his mind. Percival tries to take comfort in Daphne’s warm presence, but with every stroke over her soft back he thinks he feels the ridge of raised scar tissue. Impossible, he knows; Daphne is fully recovered and completely unmarked by her experience. Percival also knows this is an entirely _internal_ issue he is having.

Percival puts his head in his hands and rubs his temples.

Perhaps he should have stayed home today.

Daphne wriggles her way between his hands and demands attention. She coils and turns belly-up in his lap and Percival obligingly pets the velvety spiral of her exposed tummy. The repetitive motions and pleasing feel of her soft, peach-fuzzy belly scales on his fingertips successfully calms Percival.

“Thank you, Daphne,” he murmurs, pausing to tease her little feet before resuming stroking. She squirms, buzzes on his legs as she makes contented noises, and then abruptly twists upright and sneezes tremendously. Percival chuckles.

He sees his paperweight flashing from the corner of his eye and sits ups in his seat before waving open the door. His shoulders loosen immediately when he sees that his visitor is Newt.

“Hello, darling,” he says softly. Newt’s cheeks turn that gorgeous pink and he smiles sweetly as he closes the door behind him. “It’s not lunchtime yet.”

“No,” says Newt, “I just thought you could use a bit of company.”

Percival scoops Daphne out of his lap and then holds his hand out for Newt. The redhead comes happily and sits himself sideways on Percival’s thigh. He leans in and meets Percival halfway for a kiss.

“How are you today?” Newt asks, one gentle hand cupping Percival’s cheek. He supplements the question with a peck on the lips and strokes his thumb over the peak of Percival’s cheekbone.

“Not my best, I’m afraid,” Percival admits.

“I suspected as much,” says Newt and kisses him chastely once again. Then he stands, straightens his shirt, and takes Percival’s hands in his. “Come on, then. I’ve just heard from Queenie that Tina is awake.”

 

\- - -

 

Tina is set up in a shared room in a different ward on a different floor from the private one Percival stayed in. She is sitting up in bed, propped on a pile of pillows, and soaked in the golden sunlight pouring in through the window. Strenburg is in the next bed over, diminutive form hidden under several sheets and a heavy quilt. She is sound asleep, separated from the other beds by the curtain drawn halfway around the bed—the curtain is open on the side near the window so that she, too, can be warmed by the sun.

Queenie is already at Tina’s bedside with a plate of familiar creature-shaped pastries on the bedside table. Tina is working on a coiled occamy Danish with a strawberry jelly center and Queenie has nibbled away the tail of a glazed demiguise doughnut. The elder Goldstein is still pale, heavy purple bags under her eyes and tired lines drawn across her face. There is a slight, but noticeable, tremor in the hand that pulls flaky bites from the pastry.

“I don’t suppose I’ll ever meet the man behind these particular baked goods?” Percival asks with dry humor as he enters the room.

Tina smiles and holds out a hand for Newt, who goes immediately to her side. Queenie briefly resembles a deer caught in headlights before tittering and smiling a touch too widely.

“Perhaps,” she says vaguely and then promptly redirects the conversation. “You’re lookin’ a bit peaky, sir. Have you gotten enough to eat today?”

“I’m quite alright, Queenie,” Percival assures her. “Thank you.”

He joins Newt at Tina’s side and pats the back of her hand.

“You look much better,” Percival tells her.

“I feel much better,” she says. “I don’t know what you did, sir, but I know you got me out of there… So, thank you.”

“No need for that, Tina. You would have done the same, I’m sure.”

“Still,” Tina insists. “Thank you.” She nods at her sister and goes on, “Queenie said there was a lethifold?”

“There was,” Percival confirms. “I tried to use your wand to fend it off.”

Tina chuckles and asks, “Did it work?”

“Not in the slightest. I had to resort to my bare hands.” To Newt in particular, Percival says, “If you want to expand your section on lethifold, darling, I can describe to you precisely what they feel like.”

Newt lights up. “Really? That would be marvelous! It’s immensely difficult to find records of incidents involving lethifold, seeing as they leave no survivors and no trace of their passage. They don’t even leave remains—”

Percival shushes Newt with a finger to the redhead’s lips and a fond smile. “I have read your book, you know.”

Newt melts, eyes going soft and affectionate, touched by this information. “You have?”

“Of course,” says Percival, he thought that was a given. Newt leans forward and kisses him soundly. Almost immediately, Daphne starts tapping his shoulder, expressing Tina’s protests at their affectionate display.

“You two aren’t here to neck,” she exclaims, when Percival and Newt separate. “You’re here to see me!”

Newt, of course, turns that lovely shade of pink Percival so enjoys. Percival makes a bare attempt to hide his smirk and says, “My apologies, Goldstein.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, fighting her own grin. “So, tell me what happened. It’s been driving me crazy, not knowing.”

Percival, mindful that this is also the first time Newt and Queenie are hearing this, recounts the events carefully and glosses over the worst of the hallway’s negative effects. Somehow, he is sure that both Newt and Queenie know how drastically he is understating—through keen intuition and natural Legilimency respectively. Fortunately, neither call him on it.

“So, Newt,” says Tina when Percival has finished. “Are you going to go capture that lethifold now?”

“Of course,” says Newt.

“Absolutely not,” says Percival at the same time.

They stare at each other. Newt lifts an eyebrow dangerously.

“Percival,” says Newt.

“Newt!” says Percival. “I cannot allow you to enter that hallway—”

“Allow me?” Newt repeats, the other eyebrow rising to join the first.

“You know perfectly well what I mean. Two of my Aurors are hospitalized because of that place—”

“And they are fine now,” interrupts Newt, “just as I will be, because I, like them, will have you with me.”

Percival finds himself stumped by the combination of total disregard for his wishes and total faith in his ability to protect. It is so utterly _Newt_ that he can’t help being endeared despite the gnawing frustration.

“You can’t honestly expect,” Newt presses on, “that I would allow a creature to remain trapped in such inhumane conditions.”

Percival passes a hand over his face. “I suppose I really can’t.”

“Brilliant,” says Newt, beaming. “I’ve already set up a secure environment for it during transport and I can use the same bubble method I used to hold the Obscurus to contain it during transitions.”

Percival looks at Tina, who is watching with open amusement. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be taking Queenie with us. I want someone on the outside to ensure we don’t get locked in.”

Tina’s amusement sobers at the thought of returning to the hallway and of her sister being in its proximity. With a grim expression, she says, “I don’t mind so long as you keep her safe.”

Queenie inserts herself here. “Oh, Teenie, you know I can look after myself. I’ll be just fine.”

“It’s not that I don’t think you can take of yourself,” replies Tina. “It’s that this place is… It’s all sorts of _wrong_.”

“But I’ll have Mr. Wandless Patronus with me,” says Queenie, shooting a wink at Percival. “I’ll be back in time to bring you home for dinner.”

“You better be,” says Tina and she fixes Percival with a hard stare. “You look after my little sister, Percival Graves. Don’t let her in that creepy hallway. It’s bad enough that Newt wants to go in, but I know I can’t stop him if a creature is involved.”

“Believe me, I wish you could,” says Percival. Newt whacks him on the arm and Percival responds by snaking that arm around Newt’s shoulders and tugging him close. “And Queenie will be perfectly safe, I promise.”

“See, Teenie,” says the golden-haired sister. “Perfectly safe! You got nothin’ to worry about, so just rest, okay? I’ll be back soon.”

“The sooner the better,” says Tina, glowering at her half-eaten occamy Danish.

“Indeed,” agrees Percival. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

Just as he is about to depart with Newt and Queenie in tow, Daphne nudges Percival’s shoulder, drawing his attention to the bed behind him. Strenburg is awake and has been for some time judging by the clarity in her expression. She is propped up on her elbows and her eyes are flickering brightly between Percival and Newt.

“Franklin’s gonna be crushed,” she says. “She’s real stuck on you, Mr. Graves.”

 

\- - -

 

Queenie stands with her hand on the open door, ready to physically hold it like this while Percival and Newt venture into the darkness. The black and the cold are just as oppressive as before and Percival can already feel his hands shaking. The light from the open doorway does not extend more than five feet into the hallway, just enough to illuminate the ashy gray of the featureless walls.

Percival stands rooted at the threshold, flanked on both sides by Queenie and Newt. Daphne has grown to eight feet in length, using her mass to create a physical barrier of protection between her human and the source of his discomfort. At four months old, Daphne’s natural body length is only around half of her current size—according to Newt, occamys grow about one foot a month, reaching full length at just over a year old. Given that occamys in general are choranaptyxic and Daphne’s particular habit of expressing this ability freely, Percival hasn’t the slightest clue how Newt came by this information. But then, Percival isn’t a magizoologist and hasn’t spent years studying magical creatures, so he tends not to question Newt’s knowledge.

“You don’t have to come with me,” says Newt. His battered brown case is settled across the room and, at Percival’s insistence, he is wearing his signature blue coat and has a thick scarf looped around his neck.

“Of course I do,” says Percival with a scoff. “I’m not going let you waltz in there unaccompanied.”

Queenie touches his arm. “I’ll send a Patronus every ten minutes to lead you back to me if necessary.”

“Make it five,” says Percival, thinking of how the minutes dragged into hours yesterday.

“Five it is,” says Queenie, smiling reassuringly. “Mine’s a white stallion, same as Teenie. Send him on back to let me know how you’re doing and if you need help.”

“Thank you, Queenie.”

“Sure thing, honey.”

In the short time that they have been standing here, gooseflesh has already broken out over Queenie’s exposed arms. From her beaded purse, she extracts a long pastel pink shawl and wraps it around her shoulders. Newt has tightened his scarf around his neck, snugging it up under his ears and fussing with the front to keep his mouth legible for Percival.

“Do you have a plan?” Percival asks the magizoologist, trying his best not to fidget too obviously.

“For the most part, yes,” Newt replies blithely, tucking his wand behind his ear and then coaxing Pickett onto his hand. The redhead ignores Percival’s alarmed expression and says to the bowtruckle, “I’d feel much better knowing you’re safe and warm with Queenie, alright? The last cold you had was hard enough for the both us—”

The rest of the sentence is lost as Newt ducks around Percival and urges Pickett onto Queenie’s waiting hand. Queenie smiles sweetly at the bowtruckle and tucks him into a fold in her shawl.

Newt turns back to Percival and reaches out to loosely cup his hands around Percival’s jaw.

“Truly, it’s perfectly fine if you’d rather stay here with Queenie,” the magizoologist says earnestly. “I don’t imagine it will take me very long to capture the lethifold and the last thing I want to do is cause you undue stress—”

“Simply knowing you causes me undue stress,” Percival interjects; Newt pouts and tugs his earlobe in retaliation. “However, it would be far _more_ stressful to wait out here than it would be to go back in there with you.” Newt opens his mouth to reiterate his assurances that he will be fine, really, if this is too uncomfortable, but Percival doesn’t even let him start. “I’m coming with you.”

In for a penny, in for a pound—as the saying goes. Besides, Percival is already having an _off_ day, there’s no reason not to take the proverbial plunge now.

“It won’t take long,” Newt says again. “We don’t even need to go very far, just outside the reach of the light, and the lethifold will come to us.”

They enter side by side and Newt takes Percival’s hand without prompting, squeezing until the tremors subside. Percival can see his breath puffing before his face a touch too rapidly, but he cannot seem to slow it down. Daphne is warm and reassuring; Newt’s grip is even more so.

They walk and the light from the room stretches across the ashen walls and then phases away. Newt ignites the tip of his wand with a gentle glow, just enough to see their immediate surroundings and to communicate by. Percival keeps one hand in Newt’s and the other clenched around his wand.

The room’s light is a luminescent marble behind them when Newt deems them far enough. His breathing is too quick and his hand feels like ice in Percival’s, but his spirit is so far unaffected. Newt plops down and sits cross-legged against the wall; Percival remains standing with his back against the opposite wall.

“And now we wait,” says Newt.

“And now we wait,” says Percival, glancing anxiously at the distant star of safety. The hair on the back of his neck is standing on end and Daphne is restless around his shoulders. Her current size is rather inconvenient, but Percival much prefers it to her being altogether absent.

Newt’s foot nudges Percival’s ankle.

“Sit down, would you?” he asks with a reassuring half-smile. “The lethifold won’t approach if it thinks you’re on guard.”

“I am on guard,” Percival grumbles, but he slides down to mirror Newt’s position anyway. Newt leaves his leg stretched out and Percival rests his hand over the redhead’s ankle.

“Yes, and you’re an excellent guardsman to boot,” Newt says indulgently, “but apparently it’s not even been five minutes.”

“But it feels like longer, doesn’t it?”

Newt shrugs a bit. “Darkness is known for playing tricks.” At Percival’s agitated expression, he goes on, “I’m not trying to negate what you feel, love. I’m merely trying to lessen your anxiety by applying some level of logic.”

“This isn’t exactly a logical place,” argues Percival. He has goosebumps running up his arms and he feels as though there are eyes on him, staring from the black.

“I realize that,” says Newt. “The unnaturalness of this place is palpable, but you know it would eat me up if I didn’t at least _try_ to rescue this creature.”

“I know, darling,” Percival says quietly, heavily. Daphne’s foot curls halfway around his waist—she really is spectacularly inconvenient at this size—and one of her wings flops over his shoulder and across his chest like a sash. Percival distractedly begins to smooth out her feathers.

Part of him is waiting for that distant light to morph into a leering face with slicked white hair and mismatched eyes. He can picture those crooked teeth and curled lips near to perfection still, even after all these months—even after a year. Bile rises in his throat— _this time last year, he was walking home, happily ignorant of his impending fate_ —and he swallows it down with a grimace.

Newt’s cold fingers catch his over Daphne’s wing.

“How are you, really?” the magizoologist asks. There’s a worried angle to his eyebrows and a saddened downtick to his lips.

“I’m…” Percival contemplates word choice. He is undeniably _not_ fine and he’s not passably good or even _okay_. He feels like he is unspooling, fraying at the edges, and moments away from suffocating. The inky blackness and the fact that he is waiting for the arrival of a known man-eater only exacerbates his ill feeling. He settles on, “Managing.”

Newt squeezes his fingers. “I’m sorry we couldn't spend this day at home.”

Percival is about to make a quip about his rotten turn of luck this past year when his mind catches on the word _home_. A small spark of warmth lights in his chest and he can’t help the pleased smile that comes to his face. _Home_.

“What are you smiling about?” asks Newt, unable to help smiling in response.

“You just called my apartment _home_ ,” says Percival.

“I did, didn’t I,” says Newt, fidgeting with Percival’s fingers. “Is that alright?”

“Of course, darling. It’s perfectly alright.”

Conversation subsides, then, peacefully and comfortably. Newt keeps his hold on Percival’s hand, chilled fingers laced with chilled fingers. Their breathing comes in too-quick clouds and the frigidity weighs down their bones. Percival glances at the distant light with lessening frequency as every aching minute passes with no sign of Queenie’s stallion Patronus. Newt glances into the darkness with increasing frequency with every crawling minute that yields no lethifold. The color is slowly trickling from Newt’s cheeks and Daphne is a limp, unwieldy weight around Percival’s neck.

They sit in a dome of pale, hazy light and, as Percival watches Newt’s eyelids grow heavier and heavier, he sees a section of that hazy edge sharpen. He slips the hand on Newt’s ankle under his pant leg to tap his skin for attention. Newt’s eyes immediately come back into focus and snap to meet Percival’s. Percival indicates with a significant glance the awaited arrival of the creature.

The lethifold creeps into the light and angles itself towards Percival. He carefully keeps his breathing even, if somewhat quick, to maintain the illusion of obliviousness, but inside his heart is racing. The lethifold has no observable eyes, nose, or mouth; by all means it is as featureless as the walls that entomb them. It moves rather like a blanket being tugged along on a toy car, giving it the vague impression of a blunted snout rather like a stingray’s.

The lethifold bumps along Newt’s leg, reminiscent now of a goldfish discovering the boundaries of its fishbowl, before creeping over the ankle of his boot and finding the back of Percival’s hand. The creature is velvet soft and deathly cold and Percival has to will himself to stay still. He watches the creature progress into his lap and spread itself over his thighs and from the corner of his eye, sees Newt lift his wand and make a slow, circling gesture. The lethifold lifts off Percival’s lap and bunches up around itself, now contained in a shimmery bubble.

Newt rises, gaze transfixed on his new ward, and reaches his free hand out to Percival. Percival stands and takes Newt’s hand and immediately begins to lead his lover towards the light of the exit. His strides are long and determined, but even with this concentrated pace it takes too long for the light to begin to grow closer.

When at last they breach the black and step into the gray, Percival feels himself breathe easier. When they step into the natural light—bright beams of afternoon sunlight shot through with swirling motes of dust—all the tension slips away from his shoulders and Daphne shrinks to a more manageable four-foot length.

Newt goes immediately to his suitcase, pausing only long enough to unlatch it before vanishing within its depths. Percival spins back around in time to see Queenie closing that damned door and he steps up to halt her progress. Percival raises his wand and applies a Permanent Sticking Charm to the edge of the door and then he steps back to let Queenie press it shut. She waits a cursory moment and then tries to open the door again; the knob twists in her hand, but the actual door does not budge.

Not yet satisfied, Percival then casts a few basic housekeeping and transfiguration spells to make the frame and the knob disappear. The door is now indistinguishable from the wall.

Finished, Percival gives himself a shake and takes a deep, settling breath. Daphne snuggles under his chin, cheered by the lessening of her human’s stress.

Queenie reaches into her beaded bag and pulls out a candy bar wrapped in foil. She unwraps it, breaks off a piece, and holds it out to him.

“Here, sweetie,” she says. “The healing power of chocolate is what you need.”

Percival takes the offered treat with a smile of thanks. He nibbles a corner of the chocolate and moves to stand in the sunlight while he waits for Newt to emerge.

“How long were we in there?” he asks Queenie, who comes to join him by the window.

“Two minutes,” she answers promptly.

“It felt like over an hour.”

“Well,” says Queenie, “it’s all finished now.” She smiles sweetly and touches his shoulder. “It was real brave of you to go back in there with Newt.”

Percival shakes his head. “I couldn’t let him go alone.”

He finishes the chocolate and must admit that it does make him feel better. Newt emerges from his case not long after, looking refreshed and rather cheerful. There is color in his cheeks and his chin is tilted confidently upward and he beams when he sees Percival. The redhead marches right up to him, takes his face in his warm hands, and plants a fierce kiss on his mouth. Percival is caught off guard by this uncommon display of assertiveness, but kisses back automatically.

“What was that for?” he asks when they part.

“Nothing in particular,” Newt answers vaguely and then he pecks Percival’s cheek and turns to Queenie to retrieve his bowtruckle. Pickett practically launches himself from Queenie’s shawl and into Newt’s outstretched hand. He scuttles the length of Newt’s sleeve and climbs up onto his shoulder and begins chattering animatedly into Newt’s ear. All Percival can gather from the leafy gesticulations and body language is that Pickett is displeased with being left behind.

Attachment issues, that’s right.

“Alright,” says Percival. “I ought to return to MACUSA and, Queenie, Tina will be anxious to have you back.”

Queenie chuckles fondly. “Right you are, Mr. Graves. Are you two okay to Apparate?”

“I am,” says Newt before Percival can even open his mouth. “Don’t you worry.”

“Healer Berry says Tina should be okay to go home by tonight,” says Queenie, again before Percival can insist that he is just fine to Apparate as well. “You should come over for dinner, I’ll make something special!”

“That would be lovely,” says Newt.

“Alright, alright,” says Percival, fighting a fond smile as he shoos his companions towards the exit. “I’m going to crawl out of my skin if I stay here any longer. Queenie, thank you for the invitation, we’ll see you tonight.”

“Sure thing, sweetie,” she says with a wink and promptly Disapparates.

“And you, my darling,” Percival goes on, twirling Newt around in the hall and drawing him in by the waist, “are an absolute menace.”

Newt affects innocence and exclaims, “Why, I haven’t a clue what you mean!” His wide-eyed expression melts into cheekiness and then settles into something soberer. “Thank you, Percival, for helping me capture the lethifold.”

“I hardly did a thing,” Percival says. “Just kept you company.”

“Yes, but nevertheless, I appreciate you coming with me.” He pauses, nibbles his lower lip, and then says, “I know what today is and I know this can’t have been easy, so… Thank you.”

Percival draws Newt and presses their foreheads together. He takes a moment to breathe, to inhale the earthy smell that always clings to his lover, and to savor this closeness. He pulls back just enough to lean up and press his lips to Newt’s brow.

“Anything for you,” he murmurs and Newt’s freckled cheeks go pink with pleasure.

 

\- - -

 

Newt waits in his office while Percival goes out to the bull pen to check on his Aurors. He stops at Goodwin’s desk to suggest he practice his spell deflection skills and then leaves the man with his shoulders hunching up to his ears with shame. He passes Tina’s desk on his way to Abasi’s and tries not to dwell on the pang that goes through his chest at the sight of it so empty.

“Have you learned anything from the men in holding?” he asks his most Senior Auror.

Abasi sighs and leans back in his chair. “Not yet, sir. Of the ten wizards we brought in, six of them appear to be genuinely clueless of the motive behind the attack.”

“And the other four?”

“Three gave us nothing other than the fourth being the ring-leader and the ring-leader…” Abasi’s expression briefly screws into frustration. “He’s rude, sir, to be frank. We can’t get anything out of him, because he won’t stop being _childish_.”

“And you can’t just wait him out?” asks Percival. It’s one of the most basic techniques for dealing with difficult perpetrators.

“The longer we ignore him, the ruder and more debasing his insults become,” explains Abasi. “Lynch almost had him, waited out nearly forty-five minutes before he got too annoyed and had to leave the room before he punched the guy.

“In the meantime,” Abasi hurries to add, hoping to circumvent any frustration or ill temper from Percival, “we’ve run his name through our records, Jack Brawley, and he’s got known ties with the trade of black market goods, unicorn products in particular.”

“At least you’ve got something,” says Percival with a sigh. “Alright, I’ll be down in holding. Let’s see if I can’t get anything out of our Mr. Brawley.”

“Shall I send some Juniors along to watch?” asks Abasi with a slow, amused smirk growing on his face. “They might learn something.”

“If you like,” says Percival carelessly. “I doubt it’ll be very exciting.”

He leaves Abasi to call out the Juniors and returns to his office. Newt is seated in one of the guest chairs, flipping through a dense packet of papers with a pencil clenched between his teeth—reviewing his information on lethifold for his second edition, most likely. He looks up when he hears Percival enter and smiles crookedly around the writing utensil.

“Carry on, darling,” he says, pressing a kiss to Newt’s temple as he passes. From his desk, he collects his charmed notepad that records conversations and a few case files from his inbox—some relevant to the case, some not. He pats his waistcoat’s pockets, remembers that he never replaced the pen he sacrificed to Tina yesterday, and snatches a new one from the drawer.

“I’ll be down in holding,” he tells Newt. “I shouldn’t be gone more than an hour.”

Newt nods, already refocusing on his work, chewing his pencil absently while he leafs through the sheaf of heavily scribbled-on pages. Percival exits his office with a fond smile on his face.

The smile, of course, is gone by the time he reaches the elevator and requests the basement level. The house elf operating the lift complies immediately and then narrows his bulbous eyes at Daphne.

“Squint at her all you want, Red,” Percival says breezily, “she is permitted to be here.”

Red the house elf grumbles about bringing pets to work, but otherwise does nothing. He’s been employed within the MACUSA for long enough to develop strong opinions on all manner of subjects and his tenure makes him bold enough to express these opinions freely. Red is easily the most well-liked house elf on staff.

Percival steps out into the basement level not a minute later. He coaxes Daphne to shrink just a bit more as he strides towards the holding cells. Once she is of a more modest size—two feet; Percival has become quite adept at eyeballing lengths—he goes to the guard presently on duty.

“Take Brawley to the interrogation room,” Percival orders coolly. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

Percival waits fifteen minutes, not counting the time Brawley spends in transit, before entering the room. Brawley is scowling, hands cuffed behind him and over the back of his chair, and he begins to shout the moment Percival steps through the doorway. Percival catches the words _bastard_ and _bullshit_ , but otherwise doesn’t look too closely at what is being said.

“Jack Brawley,” Percival says, entirely unaffected by the vulgar screaming, “my name is Percival Graves and I am the Director of Magical Law Enforcement, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

He looks up and reads, “I know who you are, you damned cake-eater. You can take your questions and stuff them up your—”

Percival settles into the seat opposite Brawley and places his case files on the table. He sets up his charmed notepad just behind the stack to be less conspicuous about recording the conversation. To start, Percival makes a quiet show of looking through all the relevant papers and information and glances now and then at his notepad. Brawley keeps up a steady stream of petty taunts, seeming to need no urging at all to debase not only Percival’s life, but the lives of his family as well. He even resorts to calling Percival out as queer and systematically insulting him for it. He’s crass about it and entirely unimaginative, especially if he needs to adopt no-maj prejudices and phobias to formulate his insults.

Percival levels Brawley with his flattest, most unimpressed stare. “I hope you’re not trying to offend me, Mr. Brawley, because it’s a pitiful attempt.”

Brawley blusters, face going red as he tries to up his game. Percival sighs and goes back to reviewing the files. He completes all the case-relevant work and moves on to the usual scut that clogs his inbox. With the volume in the room increased—not that Percival can tell at all—Daphne soon becomes agitated and starts to fidget under Percival’s collar. He’s rather proud that she has lasted this long, especially so soon after an incident, and reaches up to tickle her nose. Daphne chases his finger out from under his collar just as he hoped she would and he sees the stream of words on his notepad halt abruptly.

“You remember my companion, Mr. Brawley,” Percival says off-handedly, pretending to keep his focus on the paperwork. “She’s an occamy. Do you know anything about occamys?”

He watches the notepad for the response.

_‘N-No—can’t say that I do.’_

“Pity, they’re fascinating creatures.”

Percival scrawls his signature at the bottom of the page and then flips to the next document. Daphne tracks the movement of his pen and grows half a foot so she can reach further off Percival’s shoulder, attracted by the glitter of the pen’s silver casing in the harsh light. Percival sees Brawley jerk backwards at the sudden change in size and doesn’t try to hide his smirk.

“Occamys are choranaptyxic,” he says, setting down his pen and looking at the other man at last, “which means they change their size to fill the available space, typically when upset. You experienced this firsthand just yesterday when she knocked out several of your cohorts. I’m sure you recall how fast she grows, don’t you, Mr. Brawley? So, I ask that you be considerate and keep your voice down.”

Brawley stares, slack-jawed, and nods faintly.

“Very good,” says Percival, he picks up his pen again. “Carry on, then, I’m sure I still have some relatives you haven’t yet disrespected.”

There’s a pause during which Percival watches the notepad and no words appear. Then he looks back up and feigns a mild sort of interest.

“Oh, unless you’re ready to have a civilized conversation?”

Brawley stares warily at Daphne and then spills, likely in a low murmur, “Look, okay, so me and my guys rounded up a few extra bodies and we called in the tip off, but we got nothing to do with that freaky door, I swear. We was hired and that’s it. Just doing a job, okay?”

“Who hired you?” Percival asks steadily.

“I don’t know, some guy. I don’t know who he is. All he said was he’d pay us to lure you into that building.”

Percival’s expression remains perfectly neutral, but his heart lurches in his chest.

“This man said to target me in particular? Not any Auror, but the _Director_?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Brawley says earnestly, still watching Daphne with wide eyes. Daphne snaps up the pen in her beak, too enthralled by the glittering silver to contain herself any longer. The slim metal casing bends easily in her hold. Brawley gulps. “This guy, he said he wanted you, the Director, described you and everything. Didn’t mention nothing ‘bout no creepy creature, though.”

“Can you describe this man to me, distinguishing features, mannerisms, anything that would make him stand out in a crowd?”

“Nah, nah, he was real average. Came to me late so it was pretty dark. Not very tall, ‘round my height. A white guy, might’a had brown hair, but that’s all I can tell you. Had a real beef with you, pal, that’s for sure.”

Percival has an inkling suspicion that he knows who this man is and he presses his mouth into a tight line.

“That’ll be all, Mr. Brawley. Thank you for cooperating.”

Percival gathers his files and sweeps out of the interrogation room. Outside, watching through the viewing mirror, a flock of Juniors and Senior Auror Leonard Lynch watch with gaping expressions. Percival thinks they might call after him—impressed remarks and compliments, probably—but he pays them no mind. He is simply, as always, filling in where his subordinates fail to perform.

He takes the lift back up to Investigations and goes directly to Abasi’s desk.

“Back already, sir?” asks Abasi, brow quirked in amusement.

“Indeed,” Percival says, “and Mr. Brawley was most helpful. Now, if you would be so kind as to find out what our old friend Leland Collins is up to these days?”

“Collins?” Abasi repeats, startled. “Yeah, I’ll get right on it.” Abasi’s mouth twists wryly. “Didn’t want Lynch to look up his old pal, eh?”

“It seemed in poor taste,” Percival replies dryly.

Abasi snorts and then begins to sift through his drawers.

“I’ll send a request to Records and see what I can find out about our ex-colleague,” he says.

“Very good,” says Percival and then returns to his office. Newt is absent when Percival steps inside, but a quick survey reveals his suitcase tucked in the corner, closed but with the latches undone. Percival puts a quick alert charm on his pocket watch—set to make the watch vibrate should someone knock on his office door—and then descends into the case.

It takes him a few minutes to find his magizoologist, but he eventually locates Newt in a new tropical section of the menagerie. The exhibit is completely walled in like no other is—not counting the necessary containment around the aquatic habitat—and it is brimming with broad-leafed foliage. Artificial sunlight streams down from directly above and creates a wash of lightly dappled shadow. As Percival approaches, he feels the growing humidity emanating from the pearlescent walls and it has him tugging his tie loose and rolling up his sleeves.

“Checking on your new tenant?” he asks, placing a familiar hand on the small of Newt’s back as he stands abreast with the redhead. Newt pivots to face him.

“Yes, just making sure he’s settled in. If you look, you can just make him out. Just there…”

Percival follows Newt’s extended finger and is able to make out an irregular shadow that doesn’t quite line up with the plant above it.

“The lethifold is a tropical creature,” Newt goes on. “Considering how thin and flat their bodies are, it makes perfect sense for them to prefer hot, humid climates. It’s hard to tell, but I’m certain our friend here is underfed and feeling poorly. He must be, after being trapped in that wretched cold for Merlin knows how long.”

“Well, he’ll warm up in no time here,” says Percival. “As for being underfed… Forgive me for saying this, darling, but I hope you don’t intend on feeding him.”

Newt sighs. “Yes, that is the dilemma.” His face scrunches up in deep concentration. “My swooping evil’s natural diet consists primarily of human brains, but I’ve found that primate brains make for a suitable replacement. Primate brains are also much easier to acquire and, of course, legal to purchase… I wonder if I could find a similar solution for the lethifold…”

Percival presses a lingering kiss to Newt’s temple. “I’m sure you will.”

 

\- - -

 

Queenie pulls a gorgeous roast chicken from the oven—because sometimes certain meals do require a touch of no-maj invention to be completed—minutes after Percival and Newt arrive for dinner. Tina is already sat at the head of the table, still a touch too pale and with a cane within easy reach. Percival gives her a nod and half-lifts his own cane in solidarity.

Tina chuckles and says, “Fortunately, mine’s not going to become a permanent fixture. By next week, I’ll be able to return your pen.”

“Well, thank Morgana for that,” Percival replies dryly.

There’s a stutter in their back-and-forth when Tina looks over at her sister and then puts on an offended front. “I was not going to throw anything! Stop reading my mind.”

Percival chuckles and Daphne nudges him toward Queenie. The blonde beams extra wide and gleefully ignores Tina’s attempts to defend her character.

“Come, sit,” Queenie urges, nudging Percival towards the other head of the table. “Harass my sister later. Dinner’s hot so we better eat it.”

Percival sits and Newt settles in next to him, looking smart in just his shirt and waistcoat. Percival has always had a weakness for well-dressed men, but something about the way Newt wears a waistcoat with his sleeves rolled up and his hair a mess makes Percival’s heart skip a beat. He finds himself unable to look away from Newt’s slim, strong hands as he reaches up to adjust Pickett on his shoulder, completely oblivious to his surroundings as he coos over his bowtruckle.

Daphne draws him from his staring with a light pinch to his earlobe and he looks up to see Queenie smiling patiently as she waits for his attention.

“Would you like to do the honors of carving?” she asks.

“I’ll leave that to your capable hands, Miss Goldstein,” he replies. “You’ve gone through the trouble of preparing this beautiful meal…”

“Well, thank you, but I’ve made all this for you, so I insist.”

Queenie holds out the carving knife and Percival relents and accepts it. The skin of the chicken is golden and crisp, it smells heavenly and only gets better as he cuts into it. Percival floats everyone’s plate around to delegate hearty, equal servings and then rests the knife and returns to his seat. Queenie enchants the salad bowl to make its rounds soon after and a bottle of smooth red wine does a lap to fill their glasses.

It occurs to Percival a few minutes into dinner, as sparse conversation pings from one side of the table to the other, that he hasn’t had a group meal like this since he brought Newt to meet his family. He’d forgotten how much he enjoys family meals. Daphne coils in his lap and nudges his hands with her beak now and then, either to alert him to the conversation he is already aware of (bless her) or to demand a nibble of food from his plate. She doesn’t have the best table manners, Percival supposes, and she’s clearly rather spoiled, but he finds he has no desire to correct her. Instead, he happily indulges her and passes her choice bits of chicken, crispy skin included.

He keeps one eye on the conversation trickling around him, the topic is fluid and light—Newt’s book and creatures, the amusing things Queenie can’t help skimming from the minds around her at work, Tina’s burgeoning friendship with Sadie Strenburg.

“How is Strenburg?” Percival asks, holding out his fork to Daphne, who snaps the chicken off it gleefully.

“Well,” says Tina, taking a sip of wine and wiping her mouth, “she got frostbite on her legs and a bit on her arm—her sleeve, you know—but she’s bouncing back real quick. Healer Berry has her taking Pepperup regularly to get rid of the chill and she’s sleeping a lot, but before I left Berry said she’ll probably be able to leave by either tomorrow afternoon or the next morning.”

“That’s good to know,” says Percival evenly, but he suspects his tone belies how relieved he actually is. He was quite impressed by Strenburg, she’s the most promising of the out-of-state recruits.

“She’s real impressed by you, too, Mr. Graves,” says Queenie, not bothering to even look apologetic for reading his thoughts. “She was already impressed by your skill and ability, but now that she knows you’re deaf…”

“…a little annoying,” Tina interjects, waving for Percival’s attention even as she starts speaking. Percival isn’t bothered; if anything, Tina’s borderline careless attitude about his disability makes her all the more endearing to him. “She’s beginning to sound as enamored of you as Franklin is.”

“Good heavens, I hope not,” Percival says with feeling.

“At least Strenburg is already aware of your relationship status,” Queenie comforts, though she is brimming with barely contained laughter.

Percival looks to Newt for support, hoping for an ally who understands his long suffering at the hands of these _women_. Newt has his lips pursed tightly and his shoulders are trembling and there’s such bright merriment in his eyes that Percival almost isn’t upset by this betrayal. Almost.

“Newt!” he exclaims. “Darling, not you, too!”

Newt breaks out laughing; his expression open and soft and illuminated with his humor. He is radiant and Percival is hopelessly gone for him.

“Sorry,” says Newt, unconvincing as he is still giggling. “It’s just so… Here are all these lovely ladies who think so highly of you and yet you… You're so...” Newt puts on an exaggerated frown and furrows his brows in a familiar attempt to express Percival's demeanor and then dissolves into laughter once more.

“My Aurors used to fear and respect me,” Percival bemoans, he pokes Daphne in his lap. “I believe this is your fault, you adorable monster. You’re a curse on my reputation.”

Daphne snaps playfully at his finger and then flips belly up, wings splaying gracelessly and toes curling in the air. Percival sighs and obliges her, scratching her tummy gently with his nails.

Newt reaches over the table to touch his arm.

“I have told you that it’s hard to be intimidated by a man who dotes over a baby occamy,” the magizoologist tells him, smirking.

“I don’t know,” Percival says slowly. “She did a good job of being frightening in interrogation today.”

“Did she really?” asks Newt, leaning forward with elbows on the table, keenly interested.

Percival gives a sparse retelling of his conversation with Brawley—leaving out the suspected identity of the culprit behind the hallway ambush, because he’d prefer not to get into that quite yet. Even so, they don’t linger on the topic for long, because tonight is for them—for Percival, though none will admit it—and work needs not be discussed.

The night rounds out with tea and coffee in the living room, a platter of sweets on the table. The sweets are tiny cream puffs dipped in chocolate and based on how mouth-wateringly delicious they are, Percival suspects they were produced by the same man behind the creature-shaped pastries. He doesn’t bother to ask though, as he is certain the answer will be avoided—clumsily by Newt and Queenie and deftly by Tina, thanks to her extensive Auror training. Someday he’ll be more insistent and get to bottom of this peculiar mystery, but it isn’t high on his list of concerns. Queenie’s unidentified beau is not nearly as troubling as the potential threat of a disgruntled ex-employee.

Moonlight is filtering in through the curtains when Percival and Newt finally bid the sisters farewell and Apparate home. Percival is thrumming with good humor, good wine, and good company. In his mind, he recalls a jazzy tune he once enjoyed and attempts to pull Newt into a bit of a dance. The magizoologist beams and goes along. It’s a little clumsy with the music only in Percival’s head, but that doesn’t stop them from thoroughly enjoying the moment.

They continue to flirt and bump shoulders during their nightly routine, winking at each other’s reflections in the mirror as they brush their teeth and slipping hands under shirts to stroke bare flesh as they help each other undress. Percival rolls on top of Newt the moment they settle under the sheets, sliding a leg between Newt’s thighs and bracketing his arms of either side of Newt’s head. The magizoologist stares up at him with blown pupils and parted lips, slick and shining and oh so tantalizing.

It occurred to Percival, while he was turning out the lights and settling Daphne on her favorite chair for the night, that he has not thought about the date since he left that damned hallway. After the hallway was closed off, he threw himself into the task of interrogating Brawley and then he was wrapping up the official paperwork. The minute he got off work, Newt was there to distract him with his creatures, his smiles, his enchanting demeanor, and then to whisk him away to the Goldsteins’ for dinner.

The dreaded anniversary of his capture and torment, which started so poorly, had turned into a day of accomplishment and celebration. He is absolutely certain that Newt and Tina and Queenie had everything to do with this; he is also absolutely certain the three of them can do anything they set their minds to, as wholesomely stubborn as they are. That they did it so subtly and so wildly successfully impresses Percival completely. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve such wonderful people in his life, but he’s damned glad to have them.

And now Newt stares up at him, unabashed in his beauty and allure, soft skin and smattering of freckles and Percival… Percival feels as though his heart may beat right out of his chest, he is so utterly and undeniably in love. He is breathless with it, floating and giddy and fierce. He leans down and captures Newt in a searing kiss, swiping his tongue across that lush lower lip and gaining entrance. Newt’s arms twine around his neck, chests pulled flush together, legs tangling.

When they break for air, Newt is panting, open-mouthed, and his eyes are slightly glazed.

“What was that for?” he asks.

“Nothing in particular,” Percival replies. The word _love_ is on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back. They’ve skirted around it, tossed it about in roundabout ways, but never broached it head-on. Despite today’s positive ending, he finds he doesn’t want this wretched anniversary in any way associated with the moment the admission finally comes out.

A lazy smile spreads on Newt’s face and he stretches luxuriously under Percival’s body, purposely pressing himself against the other in all the right places. And Percival is so weak for this gorgeous young man, so helpless and hopeless and utterly enamored. For Newt, he is certain he would do anything and everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might be a little while before I get the next one going (and of course there's going to be a next one!). I have three very different ideas of what I want to have happen next and no idea which one I want to dig into first. I have a tentative fourth idea, but I'm not sure if I'll do anything with it - how would you guys feel about a fic from an outside POV? Maybe Queenie or maybe even Strenburg or Franklin??? I haven't decided and I don't have a solid plot for an outside POV anyway... I dunno. It's all up in the air rn.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the second half of Watch for Signals! Thank you so much for reading!


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